Page 14 of A Banh Mi for Two
“You sound like a tourist blog.”
“Good. Hope I’m inspiring you.”
I haul myself up from the swing, a slight grin on my face. “Good night. Lock the doors when you go to sleep.”
“Lan?” he calls back.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for listening to me… and just so you know: There’s nothing wrong with wanting to leave your home—or growing tired of it.”
“I never said anything about leaving Sài Gòn.”
“I know. I’m just letting you know, that you can.”
Sprawling out on my mattress in my room, I think about what Tri?t just said. I know his family from B?n Trè are farmers, and he grew up surrounded by orchards and rabbits and cows. He talked about it sometimes, how he’d hop boat to boat on the floating market on the Mekong in the morning before going for a swim in the afternoon. How sunlight feels warmer south of Sài Gòn and how plentiful the gardens are. Yet, he still left. There are so many reasons people leave the place they’ve grown up in. What makes a person leave? My thoughts wander to the Vietnamese American girl whose face I keep seeing in my mind. Even now, as I lie in the dark, I can still hear her voice calling back to me from the park.
She’s probably here because her family immigrated to the States. Or maybe she’s one of those tourists that wants to “find themselves” in Sài Gòn. I roll my eyes at this thought.
The annoyance comes back. Why the hell do I keep thinking of her, anyway? She took Ba’s notebook. To think I almost lost one of the only things left from him… to someone who never knew him at all. How strange it is that something you hold so dear can mean nothing to another person.
“You’re being ridiculous, Lan,” I whisper to the dark.
Phan Ng?c Lan doesn’t exist in the world of A Bánh Mì for Two. No one knows who Lan is except for the customers at Bánh Mì 98. Will I ever be more than that?
Chapter EightVIVI
I dream of Sài Gòn lights, cold beer, and the face behind the bookmarked tabs on my laptop. I dream of her running away from me, and my hand reaching out—so close, but not enough—before she slips away.
My phone blares through the room and I groan into my pillow. I press the snooze button, slide the phone under the pillow, and roll onto my side. Just yesterday, I was in my own bedroom in California, and now I’m halfway across the world. Light streams through our thin window curtains, bringing noises from the street.
The door cracks open and Nga slips in, her hair damp. She massages her face with a wet towel and looks at me. “I know you’re up, Vivi. I can hear that alarm from down the hall.”
“But Ngaaaaa, five more minutes.” Someone’s chickens crow at 6:00 a.m. here, and the streets are loud through the night—how anyone expects my body to sleep well is beyond me.
I open an eyelid, and see her rolling her eyes at me. “It’s already nine. You’ve been pressing snooze for the past hour. Those five minutes will turn into another hour and you’re going to be upset when we’re all eating bánh mì except you.”
My stomach responds happily to the word bánh mì by letting out an embarrassingly loud grumble.
“It’s the same bánh mì that you ate yesterday. I’m a regular there, and ch? Lan makes the best breakfast bánh mì.”
“Fine,” I say. “Just because you’ve convinced me.” Still, the word bánh mì reminds me of what had happened last night, and the hurt and embarrassment that followed when she ran off. Maybe it’s my fault for daydreaming about my fateful meeting with the author of A Bánh Mì for Two. She looked… scared, though I guess I would be, too, if someone showed up, stole my notebook, and accused me of being the thief.
Oh, I was an ass.
“Now get up.” Nga tugs at my arm and helps me out of bed. “Cindy’s already complaining downstairs.”
“Doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
I greet the busy streets of Sài Gòn from the sidewalks of our dormitory again. It’s only half past nine in the morning, and still the sun shines relentless heat on my cheeks. A line of motorbikes and customers curves around the stall as people shout their orders. But even with so many customers, only three people are working—an elderly lady, a boy, and her. My heart skids to a halt when I catch sight of the girl from yesterday perched next to the bánh mì stall. She’s wearing a hat today, shielding her face from the harsh sun. In the daylight, her skin shines golden and still glistens with sweat, but her braid looks the same, neat and dangling over her right shoulder.
That’s why she was so scared. The author of my favorite blog is a street food seller. Her words on the blog suddenly have a new meaning. She wasn’t just writing about the hardships and labor of street food that others face every day. She was writing about herself. No wonder she’s so passionate about writing about street food, and no wonder she knows so much about it. Still, I wonder why she hasn’t said anything about being a street food seller herself.
Her long-sleeved blouse sways with every movement, elongating her slender arms as I watch her go from slicing baguettes to pouring soy sauce. There’s a rhythm to her movement, to the way her fingers pick through the ingredients like chords on an instrument. But her eyebrows scrunch with dismay, and despite her making each order effortlessly, there’s an air of restlessness. The scorching sun highlights the beads of sweat on her face, and I have a weird urge to dab them away.
I continue stealing glances at her as we approach the front of the line. A stout lady grills meat behind her, and a smoky hint of charred pork wafts to my nose. I spy bánh mì crumbs on the girl, remembering how she left those crumbs on my shirt last night—like leaving a piece of who she is with me. I wonder how long she’s been doing this. Selling street food, feeding people.
Nga, ahead of us, waves furiously at the girl. “Ch?! Goooood morning! Can I have the usual? Oh! These are my friends!”
